


Rise Above The Crowds

by curiosa



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Coming of Age, F/M, Friendship/Love, Relationship(s), Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:25:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiosa/pseuds/curiosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Delly believes in dreams and freedom and being the best person that anyone can be, but most of all, Delly believes in Peeta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rise Above The Crowds

****  
Rise Above The Crowds   


 

**i.**

 

Delly Cartright runs away from home when she’s six and a half; (the half is important) kicking off her red ballet pumps and running barefoot until her feet are covered in coal dust so thick that it’ll take at least a whole night’s worth of scrubbing to get her toes clean again.

“Why are you running away?” Peeta’s head bobs up between the grass blades, the sun cresting over the top of his messy blond hair and making him look like a lion on the prowl, his grin quickly disappearing as he ducks back down again, twisting to lie flat on his back, his arm brushing hers as he waits patiently for an answer.

Delly sighs, tucking her feet into the mud beneath her until she can feel it squish between her bare toes and soak deep down into her skin. Her fingers winding between the thick curls of her hair in the habit her Mother always tells her will only serve to make it curlier.

“Because I want to be a painter.”

The week before Delly had wanted to be a writer, but Peeta doesn’t say anything, just bites the skin of his bottom lip between his teeth, looking worried, and then nods. Even at the ages of six, the both of them understand that this will never happen. That to live in district twelve means taking a menial job that is practical and boring, if necessary. For Delly it means inheriting the craft of making shoes and cobbling them together, or the practice, at least, of being able to sell them. For Peeta it means most likely working for his brothers in the bakery.

“I want to be a singer,” Peeta says and there’s a beat of silence before Delly dissolves into giggles, her toes sinking into the mud as she curls herself into a ball and beams back at Peeta with the whites of her teeth showing.

“I dooooo!” The tone is flat and Peeta knows it, knows that he can’t sing a tune but tries, for her, anyway.

He stays with her until the sun starts to dim and the electric lighting around the fences glow and starts to turn their skin a ghostly shade of blue that’s peaceful, humming out a song for her in the back of his throat until his older brother comes to collect them. A grimace on his face as he takes one look at the pair of them, dusted with dirt and mud and starts to berate the both of them on just how much their Mother’s will have to pay Mrs Hawthorne to come and clean their clothing.

As it turns out, two weeks later when they’re colouring pictures of frogs on the smooth flagstones outside Madam Boove’s dress store (she’ll come out brandishing a broom and shoo them off in twenty minutes time) their fingers turning every colour of the rainbow; just as Peeta can’t sing or hold a tune, Delly isn’t much of a painter.

 

**ii.**

 

Peeta shoves a small bun into her hands and then takes his seat next to her; hip to hip, his feet shuffling small circles into the dirt and dust that covers the stone step and scuffing the toes of his shoes in the process. Delly watches and thinks of how her Father would tut and sigh at the treatment of such a good pair of shoes, such a quality and strong bounding of leather. Or maybe today he just wouldn’t bother.

“They’re good, you know.” Peeta talks around a mouth full of bun, his fingers curled around its edges, nails digging into the soft dough.

Delly turns it around in her fingers, catching the blackened edges and scraping the worst of it off with her thumbs. The dough is sticky and she can smell the sweetened honey coming off of it in waves, almost tasting the sugared goodness at the back of her tongue.

“Eat it,” Peeta shoves his elbow into the top of her arm and watches with a grin as she takes an undignified chunk out of the top and lets the sugar and the warmth melt down the back of her throat.

“My Dad said they weren’t good enough for sale no more.” His fingers sweep over the burnt sides, cracking the worst of it off and letting it crumble to the floor. “He said I could have two though,” he looks at her then and Delly feels the unabashed stare of someone who knows her inside and out, every single part of her thoroughly. “And I thought if anyone was in need of a sugar hit, it’d be Delly.”

They’re both two years off the horrors of the reaping, but Peeta’s brothers are both in the running already and she knows he understands that horrible, cold fear and dread that settles in the bottom of your stomach when you know you could lose your family. Delly’s own immediate family is spared until she comes of age and, following that, her baby brother four years after; but her cousin’s, her Dad’s sister and therefore his nephew, had his name called out just the day before and she can feel that sickening certainty that she will lose someone she loves fill every corner of her mouth and teeth, until she can feel it taking over every inch of her.

She crams the last of the honey bun into her mouth, pushing the last of it in with the tips of her fingers; savouring the warmth that fills up her mouth and the sweet, sweet sugar that, even if just for a second, takes away that horrified feeling.

“Jeez, Delly!  I didn’t think you’d be such a pig and eat it in two seconds flat. If I’d have known - oof-” Peeta’s protest is cut off as she elbows him in the stomach, robbing the last of his bun out of his fingers (he lets her, even if he’d never admit it) and shoving it into her mouth before he can make another sound or protest.

Her cousin lasts through the cornucopia and the first two nights before he becomes a target for one of the boys from district two; one skinny district twelve who’s never swatted a fly, against a boy from district two who is already twice his size and spent his whole life training and preparing for this moment.

He never stands a chance really. The mace comes swinging up and Delly will never forget the sound it makes as it hits her cousin across the chest and catches at his chin, the whoosh of his breath as it leaves him and the sound of bone cracking against metal as his collarbone snaps in two.

The district two boy leaves him there, not even deigning to finish him off, blood bubbling on his lips and the sound of his terrified whimpering whispering into the silence as he waits for his life to leave him and the cannon to go off, but by that point Delly is no longer watching, huddled on the step of the back door as tears and sobs wrack through her body.

Peeta turns up not ten minutes later, saying nothing as she sobs into the collar of one of his sweatshirts, soaking it through to his skin, letting her curl one hand around the skinny bones of his wrist and hold on, until in the end she is too tired and exhausted.

 

**iii.**

 

Delly has a postcard in her room, tucked between a picture of her and Peeta when they were five, the two of them grinning with gap teeth and almost identical curls so that they look more brother and sister than best friends, and next to a picture of her Mother pressing a kiss to the top of her newborn brother’s head, his hair so thin and fair back then that it looks almost non-existent.

It’s a picture she found once when rummaging through a box of her Father’s old family things; pressed flat between the pages of a dusty and yellowed old book, the scrawling on the back of it faded now and entirely illegible.

The picture on the front is the reason she keeps it. The colours of it still bright and warming, nothing like the dull pictures in her home town, nothing like district twelve and its ram shackled rooftops dusted with coal dust that no amount of cleaning will ever make shine like new again.

In the picture there’s a beach, like the kind she’s seen on the TV, like the kind the Capitol people probably visit whenever they want to; white sand that goes on forever, past the stretch of her eyes even, and a blue foamed sea that touches the sand almost delicately at its edges. She can almost smell the fresh air when she looks at it; taste the salty water on the tip of her lips, her toes sinking into the sand as she stands at the edge, the sun warming her skin at the tides surface.

Delly keeps it hidden away between the two pictures because deep down inside of her she knows there’s no sense of dreaming. But she likes to visit the picture and visit the place, like her own little hideaway, her very own little secret in a town that’s filled with nothing but dust and fear and the sour taste of nothing but heavy disappointment.

 

**iv.**

 

Peeta has a split lip and blue bruises that burn underneath his cheek but offers little explanation; a shrug of his shoulders and a mumbled comment that things got a little too rough play fighting with one of his brothers.

Delly doesn’t ask questions or push because Peeta isn’t one to keep secrets or tell lies unless he really needs to. Instead she lets her fingers run across the warmth of his cheek and winces when he squeaks in pain and edges slightly away from her. Sighing as she lets her hand drop back to her side and says, “I hope that whatever it was, it was worth it.”

Wondering as his smile wobbles a little in pain before straightening itself back out again, a faint red colouring his face as he ducks his head and insists that, “It’s nothing.”

 

**v.**

 

At her first reaping, Delly can’t stop the shaking of her hands, pressing them flat against her mouth until it’s like the whole world is vibrating through her fingers.

She’s wearing a pair of light blue mary janes, a pair her Mother gave her with a watery smile that very morning. They match her dress though, a hand me down from her Mother’s family, kept in a box in the back of the shoe store along with some of the most expensive pairs they sell and a few family antiques that her Father can’t bare to part with for money.

“It’s tradition,” her Mother had said. “To get you past the first reaping.” There’s no mention of the second or third, never mind the fourth and Delly can’t bring her mouth to form the right words to ask any questions.

She feels false standing there, her feet aching in the short heels that she’s not used to wearing. A group of girls that she’s used to seeing daily wearing comfortable clothes and practical shoes all dolled up ready for one of them to be slaughtered.

Poppy Laurette stands two girls away from her, wiping the tears that won’t stop falling away from under her eyes and most of the girls in her pen are the same, standing or stooped, looking like their world might fall away from them at any second. Katniss Everdeen, a girl from her year that as far as Delly is concerned has already lost too much too soon, stands tall though, her chin defiant, and the dress that she’s wearing beginning to fade around the collar, turning from a stark navy to a softer edged blue, not that its owner is paying any attention.

Delly wishes she could stand that strong. Forget everything around her and stop the shaking that’s taking over her knees and look proud, or at least confident.

Later, after the names have been called and the families of the unlucky ones retreat to dark corners. Delly holds her brother’s hand too tight and lets her Mother run a hand through the unruly curls that, once again loose now, begin to take over. Watching as Katniss smiles a cutting grin at a small blonde girl that Delly knows to be Primrose, her little sister.

The youngest one beaming at any one who will look at them, so proud and so happy to be stood next to her big sister.

 

**vi.**

 

They used to make silly figures of girls and boys, adding pigtails and little boots, popping them onto trays and then watching as Peeta’s Dad placed them in the oven, perched on the edge of stools like twin birds as they browned and rose before them.

Delly remembers the crisp crunch of that first bite into the dough and the soft and fluffy inside that would almost melt inside of her. Treats that were made with small childish fingers, but still perfectly edible and buttery warm to a couple of six-year-olds.

Now she’s sat on one of those very same stools, her feet able to reach the floor now and leaving toe marks in between the flour that’s dusting the ground, the smell of rising breads wafting around her. Watching as Peeta kneads dough, his fingers disappearing into the heavy folds as he tries to hum a tune beside her.

There’s an art to it, she thinks, watching as Peeta takes care over the breads and carefully constructs delicate and crumbling pastries and soft and sticky buns. It’s an art that he’s learned over the years from his family, adapting his own style to the tradition so that even his own brothers can’t begin to compete with him now. The dough rising for him as if by magic, browning to a golden glow that brings people to press their noses against the bakery window and smear the glass, eyes widening as they take in all the foods the bakery sells and prepares, mouths watering.

Peeta wipes a curl of hair back from his face, pressing flour onto his cheekbone and the tip of his brow, smothering laughter as Delly rolls her eyes and tells him, “You could do with a good dusting.”

He shakes his head to get it off, flour flying, pressing dusty hands to his face and getting more of it on his nose until he’s scrunching it and she’s moving, wiping cool hands across the curve of his cheek and the ridge of his nose, smoothing back his hair and then dusting off his shoulders.

He doesn’t notice if she pauses for a second longer, catching at the cuff of his rolled up sleeves and holding on for a couple of seconds too long.

He doesn’t notice and Delly, well Delly doesn’t say a thing.

 

**v**   
**ii.**

 

“Why do you care what anybody else thinks?”

Peeta’s sat on the edge of her bed, staring at Delly with what looks like increasing confusion.

She wrinkles her nose at his reflection, staring flatly back at her own and sighing. “I don’t care,” she says, even if they both know that’s not true and she’s always been bad at lying. “I just want to look nice for once, you know?”

She knows what everyone says about her behind her back: Delly Cartright, the plump and pale girl with messy hair that’s barely worth a second glance over.

“You do look nice,” Peeta says and then moves restlessly from the bed, stretching out his legs and walking away to look at some of Delly’s old photos.

She tosses back her hair; pulling it up so the curls don’t look so scraggy and then lets them flop back lifelessly onto her shoulders. She likes her eyes, she thinks, a tone of blue and green, somewhere in between the two, which mix together and bring out the best of both her parents.

“You do look nice,” says Peeta, repeating himself, “won-der-ful,” dragging out the syllables and letting them catch at the edges of his teeth. “Always.”

He lets his head flop onto her shoulder and tucks his chin into the crook of her neck. Winking at her as the inevitable smile starts to unfurl on her lips, her hands moving to shove him away from her, laughing, tutting at his silly behaviour and grabbing for her coat that he’s got wrapped around his sleeve, waiting.

 

**viii.**

 

The 74th hunger games are her brother’s first reaping.

There’s whispering in the crowds at Katniss’ selflessness, unhappy murmurings at the fact that such a young and bright girl like Prim could be picked in the first place, an unsettled jostling that’s rippling out where Katniss walks and then coming back in like a wave of discontent, constantly moving.

Delly watches Katniss, staring stoic at the crowds and cameras, the firm set of her jaw and the tiny tremors that nobody would see if they weren’t really looking. Delly can understand though because she can catch the sight of Tray’s face from where she stands, the way that he’s white underneath his skin, his whole body shaking.

She takes a deep breath before they call the boys name, fingers clasped tightly together and her eyes closed, almost like she’s praying. She listens for the name Trabor and feels the breath ease out of her when she hears nothing resembling either Trabor or Cartright, the sound of somebody else’s name rolling over her until she can move freely again.

It takes a second before she realises. Flo Miller catching her wrist in the tight grip of her hand and looking at her like she understands and at the same time can’t understand anything, looking at her with such sad _sad_ eyes, like she can’t possibly believe this is all happening.

Peeta makes his way through the huddle of boys around him, everybody parting to make way for him like they’re already mourning.

Delly pushes her way to the front of her line of girls, too late to catch at Peeta’s wrist or make any kind of protest, but close enough to watch his back make its way up the steps and away from her. There’s ice in her stomach, clawing its way up the back of her throat and threatening to pour out of her in a horrifying wail of terror. Beside her, Flo pushes her way up to the front, wrapping a deadened arm around her shoulders.

She could volunteer she thinks, thrust her hand into the sky and insist on taking his place in the reaping.

Her hand trembles against her hip, fingers curled into a fist, her heartbeat heavy and hammering.

“There’s nothing you can do,” Flo whispers, rubbing her back in an attempt at being reassuring.

Delly bobs her head, lips moving soundlessly and tries to swallow, wishing, and not for the first time (or what is to be the last) that she had Katniss’ strength of character.

Her fingers slowly unfurl from a fist and it feels like every inch of her is breaking.

 

**ix.**

 

She visits Peeta after the last of his brothers walks out of the door sniffing.

She’s taken off her shoes because they’re uncomfortable, softly padding across the room until Peeta hears the silent footsteps and looks up at her, letting his lips curve into a smile as his eyes look back at her sadly.

Her heart breaks for him there and then, her lower lip wobbling as she shuffles the rest of her way forward and falls down at his side, half sobbing as she tries her best not to break in front of him. Not Peeta, not her best friend who tries so hard to be brave and strong. The boy who can’t seem to stop the tiny tremors that are wracking his fingers that try to curl back the strands of her hair that are escaping the bun her Mother tried so hard to look presentable just this morning.

And Delly isn’t stupid, never has been, she knows that Peeta won’t come back from this alive, won’t let himself come back alive if it comes down to a choice between his own preservation and _hers_. And the joke of it is that she can’t help but feel anything for either of them but pure pity.

Delly isn’t stupid but she can’t help what she feels, and for that matter she understands that neither can Peeta.

Can’t help but understand that this will be the last time she’ll touch the warmth of his hand or smooth back his hair or punch him lightly in the shoulder. Can’t help but understand that this sweet and innocent boy whose nose dusts with freckles in the summer and smells like warm bread all year round, who she loves with every inch of her being, could soon be lost to her.

Peeta doesn’t let her say goodbye, pulling her into a warm hug and whispering in her ear that he’ll see her later.

It’s a promise she knows he’s not likely to keep, but then Delly always has been a dreamer.

 

**End.**


End file.
